


Chapped

by cattlaydee



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, Hands, Hurt/Comfort, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 23:05:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6828850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattlaydee/pseuds/cattlaydee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton delivers late night missives to the General. Canon era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chapped

**Author's Note:**

> i started this as washington/hamilton months ago and just found it in my drafts, BC I couldn't quite get it there, even though I really liked what it turned into, so I decided to just throw it out here. platonic or pre-coupling, whichever you prefer.

His hands bled.  
  
He growled, aggravated at the circumstances. The flame of his candle flickered as the wax pooled at it's base, only sparse amounts of light left, but it had been enough. Gently, he blew on the parchment, ensuring the ink had dried and he folded it, readying for the packets to be delivered to the General.  
  
It was late, but he could not sleep, surely not as well as Laurens or the Marquis, who snored gently nearby. He looked at them in envy, wishing that rest would come as easy for himself but it never did. His nights were long and his mornings early, his mind racing with current and future demands. He rubbed his hands together, wincing with a frown at the fissures there, the bitter cold holding sway over his sensitive skin. The balmy environment of his childhood was much kinder to him and for a moment he was wistful for a more mild climate.  
  
He exited his tent, the papers in a sack at his side, hands stuffed into his pockets. He could not be certain the General would still be awake but the man usually kept similar hours to his own. He trudged through the snow, shivering as he felt the frost bite at his face, spying the hint of candlelight from the room he knew to be the General's office.  
  
When he reached the home they had requisitioned for the few weeks stay here, he muttered the password to the sentry at the door and was allowed access.  
  
He climbed up the stairs and was met with consent when he knocked at the General's door. He found the man sitting in an armchair by the fire, staring into the flames with a blank stare, a half empty glass of something in his hand. He had known the General's spirits to be trending low for some time now and this was not the first time he had seen him so despondent.  
  
"Your Excellency?" He asked softly, peeling the message bag from his shoulder. "I know these must go out at first light, but I wanted you to assess them in the event you would like me to edit the missive's." He shifted on his feet, clearing his throat. "If you were preparing to retire though, sir..."  
  
The General threw his hand up in an almost dismissive gesture and pulled himself up to sit straighter with a sigh. "Bring them to me, my boy."  
  
"Sir, I can..."  
  
"I said, bring them."  
  
The older man gestured to the armchair opposite of him and Hamilton made his way there in a few strides, falling into the seat and pulling out the thick stack of letters. He placed them on the table in between the two of them and leaned back. The General reached for them, wordlessly motioning to his cabinet. "Please, Lieutenant, get yourself a drink. If we are to work, it will be pleasant."  
  
Hamilton fought a furrowed brow and rose to do as instructed. The General raised his own glass for his subordinate to supply as well, and he bit his tongue. Washington was not one to get too deep in his cups, but he seemed pleasantly relaxed, and with the strain from the past few months, Hamilton could not wonder how often he may have found refuge more in the drink than he usually would have.  
  
He returned with the whiskey, and as he sipped at the liquid, he let out a surprisingly content sigh. It was smooth, and sweet, and it warmed his belly as it hit. He took another big sip.  
  
"Is it to your liking, son?" Washington asked softly, not looking up from the letter. He folded it, the first in the stack he had picked up, and slid it back toward Hamilton with a satisfied nod to indicate he had no additional commentary. As Hamilton moved to retrieve it, the General frowned.  
  
"Hamilton, what happened to your hands?" He asked softly, grabbing them with his own. The General's were calloused and larger, all encompassing to his own, and Alexander flushed under the contact. He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts and pulled them back out from Washington's grasp, grabbing the letter and sliding it into the sack.  
  
"It's nothing, sir..."  
  
The General frowned in the disapproving manner that was only his, and Hamilton relinquished his hands once more. The General studied them, rubbing his thumb over the top of them, emitting a soft humming sound before he clicked with his tongue.  
  
"You should not have let it get this bad."  
  
Instead of Hamilton's usual reaction to snap back at the soft, concerned tone, it seemed he was too exhausted to do anything of the sort. "They will heal in time."  
  
"They bleed."  
  
"Not much."  
  
Washington sighed, clearly exasperated, rising quickly. He strode to a small case in between his desk and the large bed in which he took little rest each night, pulling a trunk from below it. Hamilton rose as well, his jaw setting in a hard line of protest.  
  
"Sir...!"  
  
"Sit down, Hamilton."  
  
He pulled a small jar from the trunk and made his way back to the seats, unscrewing the top. He motioned for Hamilton to give him his hands once more, taking it in his own oversized grasp.  
  
It smelled of lavender and coconut, and Nevis came back to his mind. He looked up to the General as he drew some from the jar and palmed it onto the top of the younger man's hand. "Sir?"  
  
"Oney made this for Martha for the long winters when they stayed with us, and she insisted on leaving a couple of jars with me when they left in the fall," He explained, beginning to massage some of the concoction in. The relief was blessedly instant, but quickly followed by a burn that made him hiss and instinctively draw back. The General leveled him with a soft glare, his hold growing firmer.  
  
"It will heal."  
  
"It _hurts_." Alexander whispered back, his tone petulant, but he relented none the less, and let the General continue at his leisure. The man rubbed each hand slowly and with a gentle but firm touch, rubbing in circles and sliding his hands over his fingers, concentrating on making sure the oil was absorbed. Hamilton swallowed hard, his pulse beginning to race. He took another large sip of the whiskey, draining the glass. The image of John's smile came unbidden to his mind, the way his eyes would meet Hamilton's over an inside joke then soon find the ground as if he were embarrassed. He felt his chest tighten, warmth blooming from within that he told himself was from the drink, and...  
  
"Hamilton?" The General asked softly, and Hamilton raised his eyes to meet Washington's gaze. There was a small smile on the man's face now, his gaze dancing with humor as he nodded toward the younger man's other hand. Alexander offered it without a word, so George continued to talk.  
  
"I've found the balm very comforting in the winter months. I, too, have suffered from the same ailment, and the more we can make ourselves well, we should." He met the younger man's eyes. "How are your lodgings, Alexander?"  
  
The informality made him shiver slightly, and he shifted in his seat. "They are sufficient, sir. The tent halts the wind and mitigates the cold. When we sleep, we bunk together and with the blankets. The men have already retired them for tonight, so I will be resigned to a pallet but that is more than worthy. It is..." He trailed off.  
  
"Sufficient." The General supplied with a sigh. He seemed to be examining Alexander's face, leaning closer in the dim light supplied by the fire. "Here." He picked up the jar, handing it to him. "Your face looks to suffer from a similar affliction." The General rose again, grabbing his glass. "Would you like another, son?"  
  
"Sir, I...it is late..."  
  
"And we are drowning, Hamilton. Would you like another, yes or no?"  
  
"Of course, sir." Hamilton drew silent as he watched the General glide toward the cabinet and quickly pour a small amount in each glass. When he came back, he frowned at the boy once more.  
  
"Hamilton, your face." He repeated, nodding at him as if he had forgotten. Hamilton shrugged, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs as he sipped at the whiskey.  
  
"It's fine, sir."  
  
The General opened his mouth as if he were to say something more, but seemed to think better of it and turned his attention toward the hearth where the fire blazed. He eventually turned his attention back to the stack of letters Hamilton had lain on the table, thumbing through them leisurely, a satisfied hum signaling his approval.

The wind whistled loudly outside, banging the shutters of the window, drawing Hamilton's attention and making him jump in his seat. The General half coughed, half laughed.  
  
"Dreadful, isn't it? If you would like, you may stay in the home tonight. I have been wanting to move you boys inside, but with it being the first few nights, I didn't want to abuse our welcome."  
  
"That is understandable, sir." He crossed his legs, allowing himself a reprieve of a more comfortable position. "While I appreciate your kindness, I feel it would be inappropriate with the rest of the men out in only their tents."  
  
"Did you not say your bunks were occupied for the night?" He didn't look at his aide, merely stared into the fire. "The rooms here are sealed better, they're warmer. You can help the rest of the boys move in tomorrow. You'll have to share rooms, of course, but I would prefer my aides closer and it is a folly to have those rooms empty when men deserving of shelter should occupy them."  
  
He wasn't sure how to answer. On the one hand, the General seemed adamant he take up residence in the home, but on the other, he could only think of John and Gil out in the cold for the night, no hearth to warm them, and he could not but feel somewhat reticent. "I will do whatever your Excellency would instruct me to do, sir."  
  
Washington's stony expression broke, as if realizing he had potentially been indelicate it his direction. "Please, my boy, do not think it an edict. If you believe yourself more suited for that space, then inhabit it. I was just thinking..."  
  
He trailed off, and there was a part of Hamilton that flared hot at it, at the way his voice faded, as if Washington was doing them a favor with the offer. But then, there was something else; a tone to his request that was almost like loneliness, or want. He observed the man, twirling the almost empty glass of liquor in his hand, staring into the flames, his expression drawn, and he tried to imagine what it must be like to be in such a position of authority, beyond what rights even Hamilton had been granted, and he realized that Washington was the pinnacle of the whole army. How could he find solace, or friendship, as easily as he himself had found it in Gil, or Laurens? How could he trust anyone?  
  
He shifted once more. "I will take a room in the home, then, if that was alright, sir." He responded softly. "I will make sure to rally the boys early, as well."  
  
Washington's gaze slid to him. "You may rest where you wish, Hamilton-in whichever room you prefer." He held the younger man's gaze for a moment. "You need to mind the mirror of the vanity-take care of your face, Alexander."  
  
The younger man flushed and ducked his head with a nod. He left the messenger bag at the foot of the chair, swallowing hard, the empty glass on the table. "Sir, if you feel the letters are sufficient, I will retire for the night. I will be across the hall, if you have need for me further." He rose, almost sheepishly. "Do you have further need of me, sir?"  
  
Washington seemed to appraise him for a moment, as if weighing something in his mind, before he looked away once more. "No, son, I don't think I do. Goodnight, Lieutenant."

The hair on his neck prickled, and he felt uncertain for a moment, as if there was something else he should say, but when he opened his mouth, he could not find it. So, somewhat reluctantly, he let his mouth fall closed, and nodded, turning to leave. He stopped at the door, turning back briefly.

"Goodnight, your Excellency."

 He fell asleep slowly, wondering if the General was still up, unable to shake the feeling that there was something he had missed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come see me on [tumblr](http://cattlaydee.tumblr.com/)


End file.
